Blood and Sand

There's an old idiom about the importance of family relations that says "Blood is thicker than water," although Michel Klare argues in his documentary Blood and Oil that Oil is thicker than blood. The documentary is an overview about the policy of escalating military presence in the Middle East to protect national interests (oil).
The documentary starts off with some dirty tactics, however, and the first thing viewers are treated to is Bill O'Reilly, a man so staunchly conservative and offensive that even some Republicans are embarrassed about him. He begins by accusing a vague enemy, "the far left," of saying that the war in Iraq was a cause of United States oil interests being under threat. Because the first thing we see is an offensive, narrow minded man saying something that seems paranoid and almost McCarthy-esque, we are immediately sympathetic to Klare's ideas, as we are turned off by the other side.
As the documentary unfolds, we see that it's pretty repetitive. Klare shows us scene after scene of presidents meeting with Saudi monarchs, intimidating military displays of might, and countless shots of terrorist attack or revolution. Klare almost could be said to use fear to send his message with all the horrible images that he shows and the way he misrepresents various nations. He brings up both China and Russia, but the only images associated with them are their armies and weapons.
The worst part about this though, in my opinion, is that by the end of the documentary, one almost feels as though the entire movie wasn't about oil and the violence associated with it, but rather was Klare's political views using oil and brinkmanship as a medium. He shows each presidency since Roosevelt and their relationships to the Middle East, but it is mainly the Republican Presidents which he seems to chide. I'd consider myself liberal and believe that oil is probably a big factor in our decisions regarding the Middle East, but I wouldn't misrepresent presidents I disagreed with or misrepresent the facts for that matter to push my own political agenda.

The Nazar

Called nazar boncuğu in Turkey, the Nazar, also known as the Evil Eye stone, is a talisman meant to ward off evil and provide protection to the wearer in all aspects of their life. What is most interesting is that it isn't a folksy thing or a rare sighting to see someone wearing it, but rather it is a prevalent part of Turkish culture. From the reading I've done about it, it seems that everywhere you go you'll find people wearing the strange symbol; earrings, bracelets, necklaces, anklets, charms in all sizes adorn people, their homes, cars, and even children in order to protect them from the Evil Eye. It's even painted on the side of some Turkish airplanes, to protect the plane and passengers.
People have believed in the Evil Eye since before the ancient Greeks rose to prominence, finding a niche in almost every society, but belief in the evil eye is strongest in the Middle East. This is probably due to a statement by the prophet Mohamed saying "the influence of an evil eye is a fact..." One way or another, the Evil Eye found a root in the middle east, and has stayed there ever since.
People believe that the Evil Eye is a curse, given intentionally or unintentionally by someone else. The one who bestows the curse is said to look upon the soon to be afflicted person with an evil look, and misfortune will come to those caught in the gaze. The effects vary, but people seem to agree that it causes illness, wasting, dehydration, and death. In order to protect against this, the Turks created the Nazar.
They are often given as gifts to friends who have just had a baby, or moved into a new home, though sometimes they are given to foreigners as protection during their stay. The people of Turkey are very cautious about the Evil Eye, and so sometimes one Nazar isn't enough.

Aunt Safiyya to End

The third chapter of Aunt Safiyya and the Monastery continues a few years after the second, and things begin with a mixed blessing for the narrator and his family: Harbi is to be let out of prison, but it is due to his poor health more than anything else. Again, Taher begins strong with the symbolism, Harbi's health coming into light after the end of the second chapter, in which we see how far Safiyya has descended into hate and madness, growing alongside Harbi's sickness.
Deviating from the earlier, much more independent feel of the characters, we can see in the relationship between the narrator and his father that the people are growing closer together over time. For instance, the narrator is trusted by his father to drive the coach away from the train station and back to the village to get Harbi into the monastery for safe keeping, a dangerous and difficult task to be sure, and one that the narrator's father wouldn't have just given to anybody. Also, in the fourth and final chapter (excepting the epilogue,) the narrator is yelled at angrily by his father, a thing which had never happened "since the time he came to consider me a man." That line alone tells us much more than about a scolding; indeed, it shows us that for the first time, the father and son are equals. The two spend very much time together over the next few chapters, and the narrator becomes a confidant of sorts for his father.
Further proof that the people are closer (making the reader too, closer) together than as we knew them at the beginning of the novel is Taher's use of village traditions. At one point, the narrator offhandedly mentions that Harbi is doing farmwork with the miqaddis Bishai, which enrages and shames the narrator's father, as that is work far below Harbi's (or the narrator's father's) level of respect. This passage is immediately followed by a festive village scene, where hookah is passed around and the people drink 'araq while telling stories to one another. It is perhaps one of the most candid scenes of the village, and yet we as readers feel a part of the celebration, not merely watchers.
While the focus of the chapter, Faris and his outlaws, was very interesting and fun to read, the aforementioned celebration was one of the most important scenes in the book. It is brief, only a paragraph, and seems to be little more than drunken, stoned men bragging to one another. In context, though, it is the fact that we are included on this moment which is most important. The paragraph itself simply sets up in the final sentence the introduction of Faris and his gang, but it still has little relevance to the actual plot. It is simply a frank moment of typical village life which we were lucky enough to be included on. To me, this was the feel of the entire book. The messages are beautiful, and important, but the way that one feels when they are reading or when they are finished with this book is that it is a a familiar story, full of familiar people in a familiar village, and we are almost sad to see that the narrator has moved and his house -- our house, too -- has fallen into decay.
Taher succeeded with his novel in making the average person who will read this (that is to say, someone with little to no knowledge or relation to the middle east) and making them feel as though they're simply jumping right back into a nameless village populated by people we know and customs we practice, even though this is not the case.

Aunt Safiyya Ch. 1 and 2

One of the qualities of a good book (or, at the very least, a good story) is the ability to bring the reader into the world in which the book takes place, as it gives them a deeper emotional investment into the words they're reading. Baha Taher is well aware of this, and from the very beginning of his novel, Aunt Safiyya and the Monastery, he paints a mental picture of his village, the people, and the monastery. The very first words the reader sees are rough estimations of distance of the village to the monastery, reading like directions a local might give to a stranger.
The guide who leads the readers through the book does not keep us strangers for long, however; we are soon introduced to the narrator's family, their customs and relations to the monastery, drawing us deeper into the story. Soon it is as if we had been there all along, taking in the delectable mental imagery of the treats and foods prepared for the monks by the host family Taher has provided us. It is certainly a relief to read a story where one feels included from the beginning instead of feeling as though a voyeur of sorts as the action unfolds.
Continuing with its very slice of life feel, we join the narrator as he goes to deliver the precious gifts in his 'monastery box,' and also grow to appreciate Taher's writing more. It becomes apparent through Taher's use of language and seemingly unrelated anecdotes what sort of person our narrator is: fiercely independent, well educated, and intensely proud. It is evident that he is just beginning to grow accustomed to being respected, being someone who can be taken seriously, and the structure of the novel reflects this. For instance, he finishes a paragraph talking about how his parents have given him the important responsibility of bringing the precious gifts for the monks, as his sisters are incapable. The next paragraph details his chats with the miqqadis Bishai, a man he clearly respects, revealing a warm pride in himself for being able to chat with such a wise man.
The next chapter is quite a departure from the first in terms of subject matter. The first third of the chapter is devoted exclusively to the titular Aunt Safiyya, who is actually only a few years older than our narrator. Taher spends several passages and truly, the majority of the first part of this chapter detailing her beauty and how very much all the men desired her. Eventually, she is married off to the consul bey, a friend of the narrator's family and also to Harbi, who is also related to the narrator. After rumors are spread that Harbi wants to kill the bey's new son, a feud breaks out between the once close bey and Harbi. Soon, violence escalates, and after torturing Harbi, the bey is killed when Harbi shoots him. Safiyya fills her heart with hate, and it becomes apparent why so much time was spent talking about her beauty.
After her husband's death at the hands of Harbi, Safiyya is described as having undergone a radical change, appearing to the narrator as though she were an old woman. This can be seen as a metaphor for any two families, though, as the book makes it clear that vendettas between families were commonplace. Her beauty reflects the beauty of families living in harmony, and peace over each village. However, when jealousy and lies get between even the closest of friends, reason dies, much like the bey, and soon all that is left is a fragile shell of what used to be so beautiful.
All in all, I've very much enjoyed what I've read of Aunt Safiyya and the Monestary so far. It's very engaging, mentally stimulating, and always entertaining to pick up. Have any of you picked up on any other symbolism that Taher might have been putting in?